Milepost 70

In my younger years, I was like most my age in thinking 70 was pretty darn old and over the hill.  

I won’t completely disagree with my younger self as I hit 3:43 pm PDT today completing that many post-womb orbits around the sun.  On the other hand, I still feel young in a lot of ways.  Kari might even say—in a sad yet lovingly tender tone—adolescent at times.  I won’t completely disagree with her either.   

A variety of experiences have heightened my perspective of this milestone.  

First, when filling out my birthdate on online forms, scrolling back to the mid-1950s is taking many more screen swipes than I’d like.  

An observation that many in my Buena High School Class of ‘72 are turning 70 this year.  How?  (Our original and continuing theme “Still Crazy After All These Years” ~Simon & Garfunkel.) 

Next, I’ve recently noticed a handful of social media posts from California based news departments covering the DMV’s rule that drivers over the age of 70 now will need to retest to successfully renew their license.  The responses from the younger generation were resounding in agreement.  Some even proclaiming that no one over 60 or even 50 years old should be allowed to drive.  My license doesn’t expire until 2028.  I’ll cross that bridge when I arrive.  Of course by following all the relevant Vehicle Code bridge laws.

A sobering reminder was remembering that my father died at age 73 and my mother died at age 74.  I’m optimistic that I’ll make it longer than that, the good Lord willing.  I’d like to think my overall health is better than my parents.  Dad wasn’t one to pass on a social drink very often (as a semi-retirement job he owned a popular bar in Ventura), and until I was in Kindergarten he smoked two packs of cigarettes every day before quitting cold-turkey.  Mom had M.S.  It reared it’s ugly presence later in life than normal, and then it came on with an overwhelming push.   

Healthcare is also better now than then, so I’m pushing to make it to 88.  Why 88?  It’s not what you may think.  There are those in our society who strive to redefine every friken’ word, saying, or flag, including those who now claim that 88 is a racist number.  Why?  Look it up.  It’s really stupid.  

My reason is simple.  Kari and I were married July 16, 1988.   The numbers 7, 16, and 88 have always been reoccurring numbers in our lives (except for passwords and disappointingly so far—the lottery).  For example, all those years while working away from home, my goal was to call her each night at 7:16.  When I fill up with fuel, I try to end it on the cents at .88.  Yes it’s silly, but it’s me.   

I start today on the coast like I did 70 years ago, yet instead of Newport Beach I’m in Cayucos.  The Pacific Ocean air is my favorite.  

On to orbit 71 and whatever it brings.  Hopefully good health, staying in contact with family and friends like you, and maybe even a chance to spend at least a little time with you.  

I’ll leave you with a couple photos that I discovered and scanned just last week.   

Mom bringing me to my first home along the Pacific Coast Highway in Newport Beach, Calif.  

And a couple of many show-it-all baby photos.  (The others likely taken by my father are full frontal that I’m guessing Facebook would automatically tag as inappropriate.)  

Old may be a state of mind, yet now I’ve got the urge to go yell at some young punks to get off my lawn, take a nap, or go for a slow drive and hold up traffic.   

Happy trails.  

Sun Fusion FJ Cruiser Love

Feeling the FJ love today.  The day before yesterday, Sandy, a wonderful family friend, sent me this first photo and message:

“Spotted this in Barra de Navidad, Jalisco, Mexico; and of course it made us think of you, Kari, and Parfait!”

And this morning former fellow employee and all around great guy Scott from Australia sent me the second one while currently vacationing in Japan.

Cayucos, March 2024

In Cayucos for week to celebrate a birthday (more on that tomorrow).  Even though a bit distant, at night the sound of the waves is very soothing.

Vehicle Stop: Two Airplanes

This story flew up in my Facebook memories today:

  

(Not the actual airplane.)

     ***

I was ending a graveyard shift in NW Fresno one morning.  It’s filled with county jurisdiction islands.   

The sun is just starting to come up and as I’m northbound on Van Ness Extension, I see two airplanes taxiing eastbound on Herndon—I thought.  It had been “one of those busy nights....”

I punched it and cleared the half mile or more to Herndon and turned eastbound.  

Sure enough, there they were, now eastbound Herndon at about West Ave.  I caught up to them at about Palm and lit them up.  As I did, it hit me—how am I going to sound calling this in....?  A Vehicle Sop on two airplanes?

I did somehow, and with Dispatch sounding like maybe I had gone 5150 [crazy], and to the click of mics from around the county.   

And, then, the airplanes kept going.  Great, now I’m in slow speed pursuit of two airplanes.  

The back one was a tail dragger, so he’s weaving back and forth just so he can see where he’s going.  And of course, it’s not like they have rear view mirrors to see what’s behind them. 

As they turned southbound on Maroa, I think that’s when they finally realized I was behind them.   

When they stopped, finally, I had amassed almost all my fellow Deputies in metro Fresno (probably to perform a welfare check on me) and substantial number of Fresno PD Officers who carried scanners.   

It turned out that Fig Garden Village, an upscale shopping center at Palm/Shaw, was having some sort of event that day.  These two pilots were taking the planes from Sierra Sky Park on Herndon to FGV for display.  They had mapped out a route they could take that had the wing width clearance they needed to get into the proper shopping center driveway.   

Well, after a lot of laughs, we gave them a full Fresno SO/PD escort.  

Then we told them, when it’s time to go back to the airport, call CHP.  😂 

A couple decades, a divorce, and moves later, a neighbor started telling me the story.  Apparently, I blew past him and lit up the planes.  He followed and watched.  He had been telling the story for years, and said most folks didn’t believe him.

Late 1950s photos of me

I just started scanning a bunch of family photos.  I'll post them here.  

This is the first three.  I'm guessing late 1950s when we were living at 1219 Kenwood Place in Anaheim, California.

Just Tooting My Own Horn

I saw this Facebook post this morning:

The brotherhood is still alive fellas. Had a low tire. Was pulling out my hoses and realized I couldn’t find my air gauge. Was gonna go in buy one at Loves. Hopper next to me said screw that use mine. Then when I returned it. Told me to keep it. Brother if you see this. Thank you again!

My response:

I’m sure he felt really good too.  Doing good things for others makes you feel good.  

A few years ago when I was driving for Knight, one the spiffs they gave us was a nice air gauge with the Knight logo on it.  

While (at a Live Load or Unload) in Las Vegas I was checking the PSI on my trailer and adding some air with the glad-hand hose.  Next to me was a truck from another large company with lots of orange trailers.  The brand new driver who had been on his own for a couple weeks started chatting with me about what I was doing.  I filled him in including Knight’s safety policies and regular training, including those on tire PSI.  He said his employer hadn’t shared any information like that during his training.  I spun around and checked the two closest tires on his trailer and found them very low.  After my trailer, we checked all of his tires and got them filled up too.   

When finished, I told him he’d need to get his own glad-hand hose, yet gifted him my Knight gauge (I had another plain gauge onboard).  He really appreciated it, but I think I was happier just helping a new driver.  

I’ve thought about him occasionally.  I hope he’s safe and doing well.

The One That Got Away

Hard to believe it’s been twenty years.  

That means it’s been about twenty one years since my officers caught one of the family members shoplifting from Yosemite’s Village Store.  

The Wesson family’s converted school bus had earlier been seen by us and Rangers.  Of course, at the time of the shoplifting incident, we didn’t know they were with that old bus.  It was a strange looking rig.   

My staff knew how to handle shoplifting calls really well and I never had to worry.  I was busy and monitored the radio traffic, so I didn’t respond to this one.  I had trusted, experienced, and honorable officers plus an Assistant Chief there.  

Not long after they stopped the suspect, I was informed the father was extremely irate and heading to our General Offices building to complain about the officers being racially motivated for the shoplifting stop.  I knew there was no way that was true.    

Turning to look across the street through my office window, I remember seeing Wesson briskly walking, more marching, toward the G.O.   There, he found our Director of Retail and apparently laid into her pretty hard.  She brought my then boss (B.C.) into the situation.  

 I have vivid of memories dealing with my then-boss when we were directed to ignore the concession contract requirement that we report the incident to NPS and let them leave with no action taken.  Of course, our internal documentation was very detailed about all of the incident and disposition.  

https://abc30.com/marcus-wesson-mass-murder-children-killed-convicted-murderer/14518182/

Surviving the Storms

I was feeling a bit nostalgic and wishing I was back in Yosemite with my old team to help out with the storms rolling through and the park closure.  I remember how our team did great work under trying conditions.  The storms have barely hit us here in Clovis.  Today’s dog walk exemplified our “struggles” here.  Lots of puppies being walked like ours, father and kids fishing, and boaters on the lake.  We will survive.  So will the park.